


the way we remember us

by distractionpie



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Goodbyes, M/M, Masturbation, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 03:18:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10711068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distractionpie/pseuds/distractionpie
Summary: Joe has something of a fascination with his Captain, but forgets that if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.





	the way we remember us

**Author's Note:**

> Those of you who follow me on tumblr might recognise elements of this as it’s based loosely off of a drabble I posted recently that I found myself contemplating further.
> 
> Title is from All I Ask by Adele, and part of the summary is from the Nietzsche quote.

At first it’s just about looking. There are millions of guys in the army but for whatever reason fate had to put Joe under an officer who's just his type. Speirs is competent, a gift Joe is wholly appreciative of after Dike, but he’s also almost irritatingly handsome in a way that strains Joe’s self-discipline immensely. He tries not to let his mind or his eyes wander dangerously but he's not had anyone but his hand to occupy him since before he shipped out. He was sure the limeys must have had places like the ones he went to back home, but it hadn't felt worth the risk then. He regrets that now, when he's so pent up he feels like he could burst with it. And so when gets a chance he looks, and reassures himself that he’s been eyeing guys long enough that he knows how not to get caught and that a few stolen glances never hurt anyone.

But maybe the looking makes him paranoid because it starts to seem like it's always him that Captain Speirs calls upon, for translation and for information and for simple errands even the most wet behind the ears replacement could have been given. It should be annoying but he leads them well and this deep into the war that’s all Joe really cares about. He starts to learn, to get a sense of which of the rumours about the man are likely to be true (most of them, Joe suspects, but never without reason); to be able to predict the man’s moods and he sees that in person Speirs is mostly even-tempered despite his intensity. Soon enough, he knows too much to treat the man as just a scary campfire story and Joe even makes a few attempts at humour, although Speirs’ reactions never quite give away if he appreciates the jokes. 

He'd still never accept a cigarette from the man, but he’s fairly certain that unlike most of the company he wouldn’t get jumpy if Speirs were to ever offer.

He’s just done giving a report to Lipton in a house they’ve commandeered for the officers for the night, is making his way back to the barn the enlisted men are bedding down in when he encounters Captain Speirs in the foyer. He nods in acknowledgement, they’ve all been through too much to stand on the strictest formalities, but as he’s passing a strong hand wraps around his arm and every instinct tells him to break away from the threat of restraint, but instead he turns to his commanding officer.

“Need me, sir?”

Captain Speirs stares long and hard at him, until Joe starts to worry. He might pay closer attention to Speirs than any other man in the company, but he has no illusions of truly understanding him. “Need you? No, I don’t suppose I do,” Captain Speirs says slowly.

“Sir?” Joe asks, uncertain. He might know better than to believe the rumours that paint Speirs as unstable, but he’s still Joe’s commanding officer and no man to cross, and there’s something …off… about his demeanour.

"Where are you going?"

Joe pauses, trying to recall if there's somewhere in particular he's supposed to be and might have forgotten about, but he comes up blank. "Back to the barn, sir."

Speirs glaces towards the window and the pouring rain outside and for a moment his grip on Joe tightens, then he drops Joe’s arm like it’s burning. “Dismissed, Liebgott,” he says sharply, turning on his heel and leaving Joe standing in the middle of the foyer, uncertain as to what has just occurred between them, but more concerned over the sprint he's about to make through the icy rain.

But bar a few moments of strangeness, most of which Joe’s already learning are usually triggered by somebody getting in the way of his enthusiastic looting, Speirs is a good officer to serve under, and a good man as well.

Joe’s comfortable with the way things are for the most part. He’s still pretty sure the second platoon are being worked harder than all the rest, but that’s the army for you; and sometimes he feels eyes on him as he’s standing sentry duty or patrolling but whenever he looks there’s nobody there. That’s not ideal but as long as he doesn’t start getting jumpy when his finger is on the trigger he figures he can live with it.

They keep moving, but things slow down as they get into Austria. There's still long watches and on this particular night Joe’s caught only a few hours of sleep due to a ruckus caused by a thankfully casualty free crash between one of their own jeeps and an Austrian truck full of live chickens that had lead to the oddest negotiation that Joe has ever translated, but instead of it meaning he has to patrol bleary eyed they're on light enough duties that Lipton tells him to take a break while he's not needed and so nobody questions Joe slipping into the building in which they’ve been billeted and making his way up to the attic where he’s bunked. No doubt they think he’s intending on making up for his missed sleep. In fact, he has better plans. The attic window is missing a pane and it’s right above the building’s door so he can still hear the sounds of the street, but Joe knows that the rest of his platoon are still busy elsewhere and it’s the most privacy he’s had in months. It’s an opportunity he’d be a fool not to take advantage of.

There’s no lock on the door so he doesn’t undress as he climbs into the bed, just pulls a thin blanket up over himself and curls to face the wall for a little extra privacy and pushes the whole world out of his mind. It's been so long since Joe has allowed himself to indulge in so much as the thought of sex, but now he rifles through the memories of former fucks and old fantasies as he palms himself through the stiff, grimy fabric of his ODs. He’s got plenty of memories to work with, San Francisco is a decent city for hooking up, and god knows when they're out of the thick of it they’re being shown enough movies that it ought to be easy to conjure up the image of Cary Grant or some other star to meet his needs, but the thoughts seem to slip away as fast as he can summon them, too strange and distant now for his body to embrace.

Yet there has to be something. He’s felt snatches of pleasure in dreams even if their source is forgotten upon waking, and were the whole company as pent up as he feels something would have exploded by now, so at least some of the men must have found some source, some means of satisfaction, despite the distractions of war.

He tries to think of what methods might be used and finds himself struck by the notion that Captain Speirs must be doing this. It fits ill with the soldier that he is, the commanding officer who keeps such discipline, such control - but the man beneath the stripes must have urges and Joe has seen the way Speirs loots and knows he’s not above temptation. The thought stirs something in him, something that it might be deeply unwise to pursue but Joe’s heart is already picking up its pace and he’s hardening against his own palm, finding a friction sweet enough to overrule his sense.

Speirs would have to be fast, officers are rarely free from interruption, but Joe lets himself dream up a private room with a locked door. Though he must be as pent up as any of the men Speirs’ control would make him take it slow, carefully peeling off his uniform and folding in into a stack on the dresser beside his pocketed trinkets.

Joe works open his belt as he pictures Speirs’ form being revealed an inch at a time as he stripped out of the many layers of uniform, the taper of that well-muscled torso to his slim waist and the V of his hips, the trail of dark hair spreading down from his stomach leading to an improbably perfect cock.

He squeezes his eyes shut and he slides one hand into his shorts imagining Speirs’ hands, gun calloused like his own, curling around that cock. He’d start slowly, giving his body chance to acclimatise to feeling pleasure again after the long weeks of frozen numbness they’ve endured. It doesn’t seem in his nature to blush, but Speirs has the complexion for it so Joe fantasises just a hint redness building up in his cheeks and across his chest, the perfect contrast to the way the pink of his cock deepened to a hot eager red at the tip which would glisten with beads of precome as Speirs strokes himself to full attention.

Joe withdraws his hand to spit into his palm, then returns it, revelling in the easy slide it produces. He’s sensitive like he hasn’t been in years, his body desperate to finally end the spell of denial, and the bedframe squeaks as he settles into a rhythm. He can’t afford to take his time like the Captain Speirs of his imagination does, but nor does he wish to rush it, not when he doesn’t know how long it will be before he can steal another chance like this. In his mind Speirs makes his way over to the bed– no, a desk chair, and settles into a lazy sprawl, a posture so languid it would be deemed worth of discipline to be caught in it even if he weren’t bare but for his dog tags, his legs splayed to perfectly frame the way he tugs on his cock.

He matches his own movements to the vision in his head, quick efficient strokes with just the occasional twist that makes his cock twitch in his hand, loosing himself in his imaginings until he hears the sound of the front door opening with an obnoxious creak a few floors below him.

And fuck he should stop right now, consider himself lucky that the shabby state of the building functions as an early warning for incomers, but he’s been billeted here three days and Joe knows the house is laid out ridiculously, corridors that double back on themselves and stairs that are hidden behind doors that look like closets - it’ll take at least a couple of minutes for anyone to get from the front door to this attic and that’s all he needs.

He tightens his grip until it’s just on the verge of painful, shifting until he’s half fucking his fist, half grinding against the mattress and lets his languid imaginings evaporate as he chases pure sensation.

He’s almost there when he hears Captain Speirs voice yell out from the floor below, “Liebgott!” and as soon as the call hits his ears it rushes through him. He sinks his teeth into the pillow to keep from crying out, shaking as he finally finds release. For a few panting breathes he savours the feeling before he wipes his hand on the sheet, rolling off the bed and straight into his boots with practised ease. Pleasure is still flooding his body and he wishes he could savour it, but he knows he’s been lucky to steal what few moments he’s had. He pulls up his OD’s but doesn’t bother messing with his belt - uniform standards say his shirt should be tucked in but nobody is too strict about that now and the overly long drape of a shirt that was issued two sizes too large provides better coverage to hide some of the state he’s in.

He’s just smoothing the blankets over the bed when the door swings open with an ear-splitting creak. “Liebgott,” Captain Speirs starts, then pauses. He can surely tell what Joe’s been doing, they’re both men after all and Joe is rumpled and can feel the flush in his face and the sweat beading in his hairline from exertion that could have little other explanation when he’s alone in the room, but so long as Speirs doesn’t know what Joe was thinking off there’s little harm in it.

“Sir?” he says, and if his voice comes out a little lower and breathier than usual, well he’s sure that Captain Speirs doesn’t pay him enough attention to notice.

“Liebgott,” he repeats unnecessarily. “I need a translator. There’s been some issues with the DPs.”

Joe nods. His mouth feels dry and he runs his tongue over his upper lip to moisten it before he speaks, “Yes, sir. Where to?”

“There’s a jeep waiting, follow me.” Speirs heads right back out of the door without waiting for Joe to acknowledge the order, leaving Joe scrambling to get himself into a state of dress fit to be seen in public before he chases after him.

                            *

The war ends.

Their war at any rate. The newsreels still tell of horrors in the pacific, but for now they have a respite.

Joe spends a pleasant hour on V.E day discreetly ogling a shirtless Speirs on his balcony as the man tossed champagne bottles over the edge and took pot-shots at them – aim remarkable despite the obvious drunkenness that had given Joe to courage to skulk about without fear of being seen. Then Joe goes back to getting very, very drunk. But when he finally regains his senses even through his headache he remembers that marvellous sight. Speirs’s torso is every bit as impressive as Joe had imagined.

They’re back to work soon enough, but their duties are less traditional and Joe finds that he seems to have taken upon the unofficial status of Captain Speirs’ personal runner. It’s not that he minds in particular, there’s certainly worse tasks he could have set to, but peace also means certain standards are slipping, and even Speirs indulges in an open collar here, letting his hair going un-brushed in the mornings… it’s hardly anything scandalous but it’s enough that Joe’s libido will not let itself be laid aside.

There’s something different about Speirs now that he’s not serving as a combat leader, like the war had reached his very soul and become part of him, made him into the ideal solider, but now they’re at peace there’s an air of contentment about him. Joe envies it, half the time he feels like he’s about to itch right out of his skin, too used to action to know what to do with himself now that he’s got no outlet for the fire that’s fuelled him through this war, almost enough to make him eager to ship out east.

When he hears the news that Grant's been shot, the only solace Joe has is Tab's declaration that Speirs has gone to hunt down a surgeon to save him. It’s enough that Joe shoves down his fear and puts his faith in his Captain to take care of his friend, holds tight to the fact that Speirs has never failed him yet, and sets out after the bastard who did it.

Drunks don't hide well, trigger happy drunks in stolen jeeps they can't drive don't hide at all, and it doesn't take long until they're hauling that filth into the CP.

He's been roughed up a little as they brought him in, but it's Joe who takes the first real swing at him. He pours all his hatred into his fist and smacks the guy so hard that he hears something break, but it's not enough to satisfy him, just enough to get him revved up to do it again. He's ready to fight the first guy who tries to stop him, but instead he gets Perconte and Pop-eye holding the bastard down and for a second it looks like Tab is going to step in but instead he just shakes his head, reminding them that, "Speirs wants him alive," before he walks right out the door.

After that the only time Joe stops is to give somebody else the space to get his hits in.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before Speirs storms in, only that the replacement is still breathing but Joe doubts he’ll be for long when Speirs is brimming with a familiar rage, the same fury flowing from Joe’s heart, and Joe steps back to let Speirs at him though he would have happily dealt with the I-Company private himself.

There's something fundamentally satisfying about the crack of Speirs' pistol against that motherfucker's face and while he can see some of the others recoil when Speirs levels his gun Joe just feels anticipation. It will be messy, and it shouldn't have come to this, but the bastard brought this fate upon himself and Joe owes it to Grant to see the deed done.

When Speirs lowers the gun, Joe can see the relief on the others' faces but all he feels is a mixture of disappointment and betrayal. Speirs is not the man Joe thought he was if he's willing to let Grant's murderer live. Joe stands there with bloodied knuckles and for one wild moment thinks of killing the bastard anyway - take whatever punishment that would bring in the knowledge that he'd only given the snivelling little bastard, the scum who'd shot his own comrade and Joe's friend, what he deserved. He wonders if Speirs would shoot _him_.

Then Tab asks after Grant, as if it isn't obvious, and Joe hears Speirs' voice cut through the roar of his own anger. "Kraut surgeon says he gonna make it."

He turns and walks away then, and for a moment Joe is frozen, sapped of his rage but buoyed by a sudden rush of hope. Get the bastard - who murdered two others, but not Grant, not Joe's friend - to the MPs. He can do that.

*

It's the days after that are the strangest, as they’re waiting for further news of Grant's recovery. There's a message up from the hospital each day that it's fallen to Joe to take to Speirs. He always read the telegram before he delivers it, it’s not for his eyes but Grant is his friend. Speirs never says a word about it. Every time Joe finds the man in his office there’s something raw and unguarded in his face. The moment before Joe shakes his head and says, "No change," is the most open he’s seen Speirs, but as soon as the words are out, a shutter falls and he's the most cold and distant Joe has ever seen him.

It's just over a week before the news changes and Joe knows the contents of the message must be writ clear across his face from the stares he draws as he jogs from where they’ve set up the telegraph office to the room Speirs has been billeted to, but there’s nothing he could do to stop it when he feels like the emotion is about to bubble right out of him.

He must be obvious to Speirs too, when he swings the door open the man looks up at him, and his eyes immediately go wide. “News?” he asks, and Joe doesn’t bother handing him the opened telegram.

“Grant woke up.”

Speirs’ whole face shifts into a smile so wide that Joe feels something in his chest tighten. Speirs has always been an attractive man, but in that moment Joe finds that the only word in his mind is beautiful.

He puts his pen down, all of his attention on Joe as he says, "Thank you," with an air of desperate relief, as if Joe had done anything more than relay someone else’s words. Speirs stands, then pauses, as if he'd been filled with the urge to act but knew not what action to take.

Joe feels adrift in the face of his obvious happiness, has to fight the urge to fidget as he says, "They didn't give any more detail than that, but..."  Whatever the doctors might have said, Joe knows he wasn't the only one who feared that Grant’s condition might not progress as they hoped.

Speirs nods. "I'll get a full report," he says, then adds, "I'll let you know what they say."

He doesn't need to do that, it's not his job and at any rate Joe would have ferreted the information out of someone, but that doesn't mean he's not glad their Speirs is making it easy, even if it's not strictly the proper way of doing things. He's been grinning ever since he got the good news, but he hopes that Speirs understands he's sincere in his gratitude as he nods and says, "I... Thanks, sir."

Speirs nods. "Get back to..." he trails off. "What are you supposed to be doing right now, Liebgott?"

Joe pauses. He's been reporting to Speirs and orders have been thin on the ground lately, he'd figured the man was just lightening his duties now that there was less to be done and thought it decent of him, but it occurs to him that Speirs might just have assumed Joe was getting further orders from elsewhere in the chain of command. "I... nothing at present, sir."

Speirs nods, and Joe swears there's something close to mischief in his eyes as he says, "Very well, back to it Liebgott. Though I've heard that the Colonel will be visiting us this afternoon, so you may wish to find yourself some busywork."

Joe nods, grin threatening to make his face ache. "Yes sir," he says, snapping off the smartest salute he's given in months, before he walks out of the door with a spring in his step.

*

Japan surrenders.

This time the war really is over.

Joe still doesn’t have the points to leave, but he finds he doesn’t mind so much. Occupation duty is easy. He’s kept busier than most because of his skills as a translator but even he finds that he has a great deal of time idle.

Days of peace turn to weeks turn to months and fall arrives. A lot of the guys he knows have already gone home, no apparent rhyme or reason to the order in which discharges are received, and now Easy is dissolving and Joe is only days away from being packed onto a train and then shipped across the channel back to England, and soon enough they’ll have him on a troopship and sailing across the Atlantic again – although this time it won’t be with the brothers in arms he trained with but in the company of hundreds of strangers finally escaping a war that was over months ago.

He feels like he ought to be excited, but instead the thought just fills him with a vague sense of dread.

He’ll be happy to ditch the uniforms and the 0600 wake up calls, the shitty army food and the tedious replacements who shipped out just for the occupation. But when he thinks of going back to his old life it’s like imagining trying to cram into a suit two sizes too small. How is he supposed to face his mother over dinner on a Friday night knowing what he’s seen, or go back to the cab company and live his life at the beck and call of men who didn’t step up to fight when their country called on them, to pack the soldier away and make peace a part of his life again?

It’s not time to face that yet though, and presently he’s engaged in delivering a large stack of forms to Captain Speirs.

He doesn’t really to do it; some wet HQ Lieutenant had come around asking where Speirs was and Joe had taken over under the guise of helpfulness. The sad truth is most of the guys he keeps company with have already left and he’d volunteered to drop the papers off because he was bored. Some of the officers have laid claim to proper offices now that there’s space to do so but Speirs has stuck with the simplicity of the broad desk in the bedroom that has been his ever since they arrived here.

When he arrives, Joe drops the papers on the desk and then glances around the room, searching for some subtle excuse to loiter.

“You could have got a private to do that,” Speirs points out, scribbling away at some report. Peacetime command seems to involve a great deal of paperwork.

“I wanted to,” Joe says with a shrug. “I was bored of listening to replacements prattling on about missing the action.”

Speirs looks up, expression wry. “They’re young,” he says, although plenty of them are older than the guys who trained at Toccoa were when they arrived. “And fortunate not to know better.”

“Makes ‘em stupid,” Joe says.

“Perhaps.” Speirs sets his pen down, focusing his attention on Joe. “But you could have avoided them without having to run errands to me.”

Caught, Joe laughs. It was true that he’d sought to steal a little time in Speirs’ company, but he’d never expected to be called on it. “Not much in the way of entertainment out here these days. They might be playing a picture at the USO hall, but by now I’ve seen them all five times already.”

“I’m entertaining?” Speirs says, with an air of polite curiosity that doesn’t reach his eyes. They hold something different, something that makes the hair on the back of Joe’s neck stand on end.

He chooses his words carefully. “Well you’re certainly better company than they are.”

"And you watch me," Speirs says, knowingly. “You’ve been watching me for a while.”

Joe clenches his fists at his sides. He’d known the risks and he’d taken them anyway, and Speirs catching him looking wasn’t enough for the man to prove that there’d been anything untoward about it. "Sir?"

Speirs frowns. "You'll be shipping home in a few days, you don't need to call me that anymore." He gets up from the desk, walking around it and coming to a stop in front of Joe and far closer than it makes sense for him to be in the empty room. “Joe-” Speirs has never called him by his first name before, only ever addressed him as Liebgott, but this conversation is new territory. “You weren’t the only one watching…”

For a moment Joe wonders who else might have been watching Speirs, how he’d not noticed them doing it, as close to the man as he’d found himself. Then he sees the way that Speirs is looking at him, and the implication becomes clear. If what he’s saying is what it sounds like, then he knows how forbidden it is. Joe’s days away from an honourable discharge and doing something foolish now could risk throwing that all away.

“I…” Joe looks Speirs up and down and now he knows what to look for, the man’s posture is familiar. He’s leaning in close, eyes on Joe’s face – on his mouth -, and if this were a stranger in a bar or a back alley Joe would be certain of the meaning, but it’s Captain Speirs and there’s a part of Joe that can’t help but wonder if he’s seeing real signs or just his own wishful thinking. If Speirs does want it then Joe doesn’t understand why he can’t just be direct, it’s hardly like Joe could make trouble for an officer. Joe’s good sense says he should play dumb, but he’s days away from being gone anyway, and there’s already a towering pile of paperwork on Speirs’ desk and he doesn’t strike Joe as the sort of man who’d subject himself to more of that just to punish Joe for reading him wrong. He still might risk a beating, but pain doesn’t last and Speirs doesn’t strike him as the type – the fact is the temptation is too great. He leans forward, shutting his eyes closing the distance between them until his lips meet Speirs’ in a tentative kiss.

There’s no moment of wondering if he might have erred. Speirs kisses back like they’d done it a thousand times, cupping Joe’s neck and turning his head to better the angle of their mouths.

Joe opens his eyes, only to find that Speirs’ are also open, dark and focused in a way that Joe can’t comprehend and he lets his own slip shut again instead of wondering. He’d thought about fucking Speirs but kissing had never occurred to him and he doubts he could have anticipated the reality anyway. Speirs kisses like they do in the movies, thorough and captivating but never pushing. There’s no need for him to demand when he’s got the skill to have Joe opening up for him without a second thought. After a few moments, they part and Joe’s eyes flit sideways to the bed. Speirs wouldn’t have gone to the risk of revealing his inclinations to Joe for just a kiss.

“You wanna?” he says with a sideways tilt of head, and on Speirs’ nod he strips hastily out of his ODs and then, after only a moment’s hesitation, shucks his undershirt and shorts as well –  letting them fall in a heap on the floor – there’s no point in being coy. The he leans back against the desk and watches as Speirs’ removes his own layers with a soldier’s efficiency, no hint of discomfort in baring himself, and why would he? His shoulders flex as he turns away to place his jacket neatly on the dresser and Joe finds that once again he has the sense of looking upon somebody who is not so much man as he is legend, perfect form more untouchable than ever. Then Speirs turns, and Joe forgets all thoughts of the mythic in the face of the man’s visible arousal, biting his lip at the sight of his captain's cock, growing even as he looks at it, and how urgently he finds himself possessed by a desire to feel it filling him. Even as he stares he can feel Speirs watching him in return, and wonders if perhaps there was something more than paranoia to all of those times that he thought he'd felt eyes following him before. Speirs might have told him to drop the rank but Joe can’t forget the man is his captain as those sharp eyes scrutinise his bared form, doesn’t want to.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” Speirs murmurs, and no, Joe can’t imagine. That Speirs might have caught him looking and sensed a convenient opportunity to relieve some tension before Joe ships back to the states and Speirs to wherever his orders take him had seemed a logical theory, but it’s only now as he sees that familiar covetous look no longer directed at treasure but at him that Joe begins to wonder if there might be more to Speirs’ motives.

He crosses the room in a few quick paces and wraps his arms around Joe as he claims another kiss, hot and hard and pressing close enough that Joe can hear their dog tags clinking together.

Joe's eager just from the sight of him, doesn't need any further seduction and Speirs can't be unaware of Joe's cock brushing against the juncture between his thigh and hip but instead of moving things forward he runs his hands slowly up Joe’s back, tracing along the ridges of his spine, pausing to grip at his shoulders. He squeezes tight, digging his fingers into muscles that have ached so long that Joe had forgotten they could feel any differently and a groan slips from his throat at the way Speirs fingers seem to draw the pain out of him, can't even bring himself to urge Speirs along as the man spends several minutes working the sore muscles over until they're loose and pliant before he slides his hands over and down towards Joe's chest.

He thumbs at Joe's nipples and Joe knows some guys are sensitive there but it’s never been his thing, still isn’t really, it’s just that there’s something about those rough hands, hands that seem almost like they were crafted for violence, touching him so softly that makes him ache for more, his own hands groping eagerly at every part of Speirs that he can reach as he explores the man. He’s so distracted by Speirs’ body that he barely notices that he’s being backed across the room until the back of his legs knock against the bedframe, and realises that it’s time to move things along.

He climbs onto the mattress, settling on his hands and knees, but Speirs huffs in a way that Joe has long since learned indicated the man is repressing frustration. “No,” Speirs says firmly, “I want to see your face.” He grabs Joe by the shoulder, flipping him over with ease, and that’s not how Joe fucks, not how this has ever gone, but this is his Captain not some anonymous back alley stranger so though he’s hyper aware of Speirs' eyes on him, deep and unfathomable, he doesn’t fight it. It feels strange, to be spread out on a bed but with a little urging Joe digs in his heels and he arches upward and Speirs stacks the two thin pillows beneath his hips so that when he relaxes his hips stay raised, leaving him feeling like he's been laid out for the taking.

Speirs settles on the bed between Joe’s legs, and it’s just instinct to spread them wider to make room for him as he runs his hands over Joe’s ass, squeezing and rubbing at the cheeks and then pulling them apart, holding him as exposed as it is possible for him to be, all for Speirs’ intent gaze.

"Have you got anything to make this go easier?" Joe asks, because he's made do with spit before but it's been a long time since he's done anything like this and Speirs is hardly small.

Speirs nods, opening a drawer on the nightstand and pulling out a small dark bottle - far too convenient to be chance. Joe wonders if he's had other men up here, if there were other guys in the company who might have been game for this or if Speirs had sought out a likeminded DP; or if, and Joe’s cock leaks a little against his belly at the thought, Speirs might have been using it on himself, the kind of guy who liked men both ways, enough to have procured himself some slick so that he could work off a little of his tension getting fucked by his own fingers.

Joe is expecting the bottle to be passed over to him, but instead Speirs pours a little of the bottles contents over his own digits before he slides his hand between Joe's spread legs and Joe feels one oil slick finger circling his hole. Normally Joe would insist upon doing this part himself, has little faith in the men he usually hooks up with to do a decent job of it, but if there’s one thing he’s sure of it’s that Speirs is the type of man who insists upon being competent, or better skilled, at anything which he attempts.

Speirs presses the first finger into him slowly, almost cautiously, a needless furrow in his brow as he glances up towards Joe’s face. Joe shifts his hips a little, settling into a more comfortable position and nods encouragingly.

Frown fading a little, Speirs says, “You've been such a distraction,” tone conversational, as if he isn’t sliding a second capable finger into Joe as he does so.

Joe props himself up on one elbow and says, “If you really saw me watching, then you know I could say the same to you.” It’s been too long since he’s had this, he feels full from just two fingers but that doesn’t stop him wanting more. He doesn’t get that though, Speirs lingers on two, shifting his angles and working Joe open until the familiar edge of pain that he’s embraced as part of the experience fades. It’s not until Joe starts to rock back on his fingers impatiently that Speirs pushes a third digit in, and with Joe so relaxed it’s a smooth slide, Joe squirming a little when Speirs brushes up against that sweet spot inside him, pushing his tolerance for this crawling pace to the limit.

“Not that you aren’t good at this,” Joe says fairly, his words punctuated by a gasp as Speirs crooks his fingers, “But could you get on with it and fuck me sir.”

“Don’t call me that,” Speirs says sharply, an order this time. “Not if we’re going to do this.”

Joe frowns. On one hand, he’s not inclined to question his captain, but if Speirs is so determined to drop rank then that falls by the wayside. “What then?”

"My name," he says, and Joe thinks 'Speirs', before he adds, low voiced. "I want you to call me Ron."

"Ron...” Joe repeats and the name feels strange in his mouth, but not as strange as watching the unfamiliar upward curve of Speirs’ mouth upon hearing him say it. “Hurry up and fuck me.”

Speirs withdraws his fingers slow enough for the act to feel like a tease in itself. Joe bites his lip at the drag of bent knuckles stretching him just a little further, and then the hollow feeling that seizes him as Speirs fingers finally fall away.

He curls his free hand under Joe’s thigh, pushing it upward to open his hips further. Joe breathes deep, braces himself for the intrusion and he can feel Speirs lining himself up, feels the first touch of Speirs’ cock but instead of pushing in Speirs just rubs the hot tip of it against him, pressing against his hole so that Joe can feel the size of it, anticipate the way he'll have to stretch to take such a girth.

“Well?” Joe says impatiently, “Are you going to-” he breaks off with a sound that is definitely not a whine as Speirs finally breaches him. With both legs drawn high and his right knee pressed almost to his chest, he has no traction to do anything but lie back and take it as he’s filled so slowly that he can savour every inch that slides into him, cleaving him open as he'd craved.

For a moment they are still. Speirs is braced over Joe, watching as his chest heaves with each deep breath he takes as he adjusts to the feeling and Joe spends several confusing moments wondering why Speirs torments him rather than getting on with it before he realises Speirs is waiting for his permission.

He reaches up, guiding Speirs closer with one hand and, for lack of better words, hisses out, “C’mon,” sounding needier than he’d like, but it gets results, Speirs pulling back and then thrusting into to Joe in a way that sends sparks through every nerve.

There’s no conversation now between them, just a meeting of bodies and a few quiet grunts of pleasure from Speirs as he sinks deep, until a particularly hard thrust draws a whorish sound from Joe’s throat and he turns his head, abashed and frustrated with himself, but Speirs reaches out, his hand cupping Joe’s cheek and turning him back.

"Don't hide from me, Joseph," he murmurs, and Joe hasn't the first clue what to make of that but there’s something he can’t label in Speirs’ expression that makes his cheeks heat. Speirs keeps his fingers gripping Joe’s jaw, his thumb brushing slowly over his lower lip, as he shifts so that each of his thrusts hits Joe in the same way, until Joe is breathless.

One of the pillows slips underneath him, and as the next thrust hits it knocks his whole body out of place, twisting his spine uncomfortably enough that he grimaces. He’s about to try and adjust himself back to something more comfortable when Speirs straightens up and pulls out. The sudden loss makes him keen, but Speirs just places one hand under Joe’s ass, guiding him upwards and repositioning the pillows until they’re better placed. It’s then that Joe realises that this will be no hurried release of tension. When Speirs slides back in he’s fucking him like a lover might – slow and thorough and attentive to Joe’s every reaction.

He lets his weight drop from his elbow, his upper body falling back against the bed and the slight change in angle lets Speirs even deeper, bottoming out so that Joe can feel the jut of his hipbones pressing into his ass. He doesn't withdraw for another thrust, just rolls his hips against Joe's, keeping Joe stuffed with his cock and writhing - half in search of friction and half from the glorious fullness of it.

Eventually, Speirs’ movements grow jerky, his breaths coming in sharp gasps to match as he drives into Joe, back to the sharp thrusts now. Joe watches the way his muscles tighten as he works himself to a peak, and then that fascinating moment as that ratcheted tension releases, Speirs' eyes finally falling closed. He makes a more stunning picture than any of the looted art that Joe has stumbled upon – his face slack even as his fingers tighten their grip on Joe. Speirs shudders and gives the smallest of cries, one that deepens into a resonant groan as Joe arches his back and clenches around him.

After a moment he slips out and Joe is left with just the strange feeling of instinctively bearing down on emptiness. He reaches down to grasp at his own cock, intent upon finishing the job, but Speirs knocks his hand away, sliding down the bed to settle on his belly between Joe’s thighs.

He ducks his head, leaning forward to press his mouth between Joe’s parted cheeks and Joe can’t quite believe what he’s seeing until he feels the touch of Speirs’ lips. He uses his mouth with shameless abandon. His tongue slides over the stretched and sensitive rim, as he licks his own leaking spend from Joe’s hole, sinfully hot and slick. He takes his time pressing messy kisses over Joe's most intimate flesh before tracing upward with his tongue, drawing a looping indirect trail over his balls and then along his shaft until he’s leaning over Joe once more, this time with Joe’s cock resting against his lips, and even now he looks up through his lashes, his almost unbearably hot gaze fixed on Joe.

He takes him easily, head bobbing until Joe is shaking with the effort of holding back but Speirs – Ron, he has to be Ron now – gropes at him, tugging Joe’s hips upward and then humming his satisfaction as Joe presses deeper into his mouth. The vibrations hit him with a jolt of pleasure and Joe ceases to care how wanton the noises he’s making are, clawing at the sheets as he fucks into that wet heat, Ron petting his sides encouragingly.

In a moment of lust induced boldness, he drags one hand from the sheets to grasp instead at Ron's hair, running his fingers through the silken strands. Ron turns his head, pressing up into the touch and Joe watches his face and is stunned be the rapture he finds there. This is no quick return of a favour for Joe letting Ron fuck him, Ron seems to savour this, taking his time until Joe cries out, biting at the flesh of his own fist to stifle himself as he comes, his whole world reduced to the warm embrace of Ron's mouth. Ron doesn’t ease up in the aftermath, alternating between sucking him deep and almost kittenish licks until the sensitivity edges into pain and Joe's gasps turn to small groans of discomfort, hips jerking.

Ron raises his head, pushes up so that he can roll away and then eases the pillows from under Joe's hips. Joe falls back against the sheets, drenched in sweat and shaking with the force of his orgasm, his eyes shut and his limbs slack with pleasure and utterly useless to him.

He listens as Ron crawls up his body and settles, curled catlike around him. A few strands of sweaty hair are stuck to his Joe’s face and as he feels them being brushed away he opens his eyes to see Ron watching him, once again with a look in his eyes that’s as mystifying as it is familiar. Joe drags his lower lip between his teeth, certain he should speak but lacking any worthwhile words, but then Ron kisses him, soft and chaste and utterly baffling. Joe can count on one hand the number of times he’s been kissed after sex, there’s no need for flirtation now, not unless hoping for a second round and Joe doubts that even a man of Ron’s vigour could be ready to go again quite so soon after what has just passed between them.

After a few long moments, Joe starts to feel a little cool – the heat of exertion fading and making the evening chill more noticeable – and he tugs the sheet around him. Ron rolls over, pulling cigarettes from the nightstand, along with a fancy silver lighter that he must have looted, and by the engravings it’s not the same lighter Joe has seen him carrying in his uniform either.

He settles beside Joe, lighting the cigarette but before he can bring it to his lips Joe reaches over and plucks it from his fingers, taking a deep drag, savouring the taste – even now, it’s the officers who get the good stuff. When he looks in Ron’s direction, his sees an incredulous stare. Somehow he suspects that nobody has ever stolen one of Ron’s cigarettes before. Joe smirks and takes a second pull, and this time Ron leans over and, but instead of reclaiming his cigarette he presses his lips to Joe’s, drawing the smoke from his mouth as he exhales.

He steals a little of Joe’s breath with it.


End file.
